Will you? That was the question behind the gentle voice.
“They can’t be near Aryl, near anyone who’s pregnant,” Enris heard himself say. “We can’t take that risk.”
The Human nodded vigorously, eyes bright. “Safe here, if you want.” He wrinkled his nose. “Soon too safe. Extra security.” At their puzzled looks, he spread his hands. “Danger, people die. Doesn’t matter. No budget for repulsionfields. No protection, us, from Tikitik or Oud. Problems our fault. My fault.” This, low and troubled. He looked up. “If First confirms intact Hoveny find here, with possibility of activeinstallation, this small place will suddenly become more important than thousands of other Triad, other Hoveny sites. Understand? Go from lowest potential to highriskvalue. Suddenly we rate orbitalscanners and dedicatedpatrolruns. Protect things, not people. Always our way.”
“Not yours,” Aryl said firmly. “You care.”
Marcus patted her hand, another familiarity they allowed the Human. Husni would be horrified.
They unloaded crates into the storage building.
Marcus was taking samples with him to another place, a place with decision makers who cared about things.
Enris realized he’d broken his turrif crisp into crumbs. “Say you were to trade these old things, these Hoveny artifacts, to someone,” he said lightly. “What could you get in return?”
Despite his easy tone, the question brought the Human half out of his seat. “No! I not trade! Never!”
Not what he’d asked. He sensed Aryl’s confusion. His dear Yena struggled with the concept of a mutually beneficial trade between two Om’ray. In her view, an object’s only worth was if someone needed it, and whomever needed it most should have it. Fine in the canopy, where everyone’s life depended on the whole.
He’d come from a different Clan and understood immediately. The Human had been offered something for the artifacts and refused. These old things, however useless to Om’ray, had value to the Strangers. Value worth protecting.
Value that was dangerous.
Clang!
“Don’t worry,” Marcus said quickly, as if relieved by the interruption. “Oud outside. It’s how they call me to the door.”
CLANG!
“I’m coming!” The Human grumbled something in his own language as he got up and went to the door. He didn’t open it, consulting a small screen to one side. “Their Speaker,” he announced.
“Good.” Aryl rose to join him, her grace making poor Marcus look clumsier than usual. Doubtless, she did the same to him, Enris thought. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that this superb Om’ray had Chosen him.
He would keep her safe.
He didn’t look at the crate of Glorious Dead.
“You go,” Enris said, stretching as if lazy. “Marcus and I will finish the turrif.” Be careful.
A flash of warmth; a trace of relief he pretended not to notice. Her mind grew focused on the task ahead. All I can do is try.
CLANG!
Aryl opened the door. “Stop that,” she ordered impatiently. “I’m here!”
“Goodgoodgood . . .”
The door closed behind her.
Marcus hesitated, his hand on the control, and looked at Enris. “You sure it’s all right to leave her with them? Alone?”
How could he be?
But one thing Enris did know. “We’d be a distraction.”
Marcus nodded listless agreement. He waved the turrif. “All for you, Enris. I’m not hungry.”
Enris pursed his lips, ignoring the food. He wanted to trust the Human. To an extent he did, though how much of that was Aryl’s belief in Marcus, how much his own?
The Human couldn’t read Om’ray emotion. He was disturbingly good at reading Om’ray faces. Whatever he saw on Enris’ brought Marcus slowly from the door, to stand within reach. “There is no trade,” he stated. “Not by me. Not of my work. Not of this.” He moved his hand to draw a connection between them. A smile that didn’t light his eyes. “But you were right to ask. What we’ve collected . . . the samples—” a nod at the door, “—I’ll take with me. I could trade one item and retire—stop working. I could live in comfort for the rest of my life, travel wherever I want, not worry.” He sat on the edge of his bed, hands on his knees. “There are people who would pay—trade—anything for verified Hoveny artifacts.”
While he had no idea what “anything” might mean to the Strangers and their vast Trade Pact, he wouldn’t say no to a bioscanner and Marcus’ healing technology.
It hadn’t been offered. Nothing would be, Enris realized abruptly. “But not with the Oud. Or us.”
“No.” The Human blew out a breath, then ducked his head to look up at Enris. “Not my idea, Enris. Not a Human one. Before we came, before the Commonwealth reach this far, this space governed by species already here. The First. They made rules for those searching for what remained of the Hoveny Concentrix. The search must be by Triads. Triads must be of different species. Discoveries must be shared. Include Humans. Good rules.” He grimaced. “One not good rule. On worlds with vestigialpopulations, with people who no longer remember the Hoveny existed, or maybe later colonists who never overlapped—lived together—any discoveries belong to the Triads. These,” he pointed to the crate of wafers, “are yours. The Cloisters are yours. The artifacts are not.”
“Do the Oud understand this? That you’ll take what they’ve found?”
“Think so. Hope so. Maybe.” Marcus looked older, weary. “Oud don’t want the artifacts. They want to know what they are for.”
“What is?” the Oud had asked him. Enris would never forget that day. “Why?”
Another sidelong look, something of a smile. “Oud are makers. They want ideas, more and more ideas. What could be made? What would it do? How to make it—they work that out themselves. Busy. Always busy. Like you, that way.”
He bristled. “They are not,” Enris said through clenched teeth, “like me.”
“Not like you,” Marcus agreed, too quickly. “Because some Oud want something else. They want to know why they are here.” His toe tapped the floor.
“Here. At Sona?”
An appraising look. A second tap. “On Cersi.”
It was as if the floor tilted, or the light changed color. Aryl had warned him how mere words could make the Human suddenly strange and terrifying. That if they weren’t careful what they asked, Marcus could change their world the same way. He hadn’t understood.
Until now.
Enris found himself short of breath. “The Oud,” he said finally, firmly, “have always been here. Like the Tikitik. Like us.”
Marcus considered him silently for a moment, then made the gesture of apology he’d learned. “My mistake.”
There was nothing on his face but kindness.
Without touching him, without reaching for the Human’s feelings—certain to cause Marcus pain—Enris couldn’t be sure.
He didn’t need to be. After Marcus Bowman was willing to believe what he’d told him of the Vyna and the Glorious Dead, he, Enris di Sarc, had refused to make a similar leap.
Failing a challenge as real and as important as any he’d faced.
And the Human pitied him.
He pushed the crate on the table closer to Marcus. “Best these stay here. For now.” And stood.
Marcus rose too. “Enris—”
“Don’t—” he began and stopped, ashamed, unsure why.
“I must. Listen to me. I should be more careful what I say. What I ask. I know better. Did Aryl tell you, she ran from me? Almost died because of my foolish words? Because I forget you are not Human.”